


The Journalist: The Dateline

by lettalady



Series: The Journalist [7]
Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-05-29
Packaged: 2018-04-01 19:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4031122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettalady/pseuds/lettalady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TJOURN #0.4</p>
<p>In this, the fourth in the prequel series to The Journalist, we get another glimpse at things from Tom's perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journalist: The Dateline

 

He recognizes how foolish he’s being. He shouldn’t be so unguarded with her, shouldn’t be so free with his words, with details of his life. At this very moment he _should_ go back to pacing the small tract of open space of his suite as he attempts to memorize the changes to the script. They’ll be shooting the scene tomorrow, after all.

Should. And yet…

Her laugh is resounding in his head, the hesitant laugh she used during their first interview and in sporadic moments since. He’s dying to hear it to refresh the quality of the echo. Or, perhaps, be graced with the full-on show of delight that he sometimes gets as reward – the unbridled laugh that seems to bubble up from deep within her.

Anything will do. Her laugh, or hearing about her day, or maybe see if he can gain another detail – something more about her. Infuriatingly, she has been revealing the smallest of glimpses one phone call at a time.

The bio given to his team prior to the first interview, prior to his initial exposure to her, delivered minimal professional info. Nothing more. At the time the bio had contained just enough information for him to make a selection as to which journalist to interact with, more than enough insight into the lives of the journalists potentially interviewing him. Now he considers the sparse information to be woefully inadequate.

Trying to gather data via the internet wasn’t as helpful as he’d hoped. Sure, there were links for the various entertainment articles she’d written for the masses, things both tied back to her current employer and others besides. He can, upon reading them, now discern what he estimates to be ‘her voice’ within the articles themselves.

There are a fair few things also returned in his searches that don’t pertain to the entertainment industry. Wonderful reviews, news articles, on and on and on. It has become a hobby during his downtime, trying to find something with her name attached. Sometimes he daydreams about what it must be like to watch her as she works – being allowed that level of trust, allowed to observe.

Perhaps she is one to silently mouth out the words as she reads and writes, her lips moving to phantom mutter the words as they appear on the page. Or perhaps as she compiles information she reads aloud, arguing point and counterpoint to better familiarize herself with the material. He tends to imagine her surrounded, by electronics and hard copies of research alike, buried in her work and content.

He’s even caught himself muttering under his breath while scanning the web for any small bit of additional information about her.

“Does she have family here? No - well, none that have the same last name. Mmmm, unless she’s had it changed it for professional reasons. I wonder… Did she follow someone? Moved to London and… No, no, she said that it had been a job offer that hadn’t panned out as she anticipated. Well done, though, Tom. Perfect. Imagine a scenario where she’s madly in love with another man and you’ve repeatedly made yourself look an absolute tit. It’s a wonder she hasn’t… No - she - she would have spelled it out in no uncertain terms by now. Wonder what her original intention was for her career? No engagement announcements – just to be thorough. Hmmm, there might be hope yet…”

All he has to go on regarding her past are the sparse details she has offered up. There’s the story she relayed of her aunt and uncle – suggesting she lived with them for a time – and then there is the more recent revelation, the tale about her misadventure with bees – but there is little in the manner of conveyed information to link those stories together. Every time they talk she manages to tell him things without telling him much of anything. It is, in a word, maddening.

He huffs and stares at the typed words on the page, not reading a single syllable. He had needed to participate in the interview those many months ago – needed to participate in an exclusive interview in order to drum up interest, according to the backers of the project. He’d dragged his feet, remembering the past all too well, and found reason after reason to refuse to work with those suggested.

Who could have predicted that from the columned faces of the staff of the entertainment magazine he would have picked the single person who could have changed his mind regarding those in her profession? That he would have desired more interaction? More stories. More laughter. Just… more.

Tom gives his head a hard shake. He _needs_ to focus on the changes that he’s expected to know tomorrow, not continue to let his brain barrel down paths of its own volition. Drawing comparisons between her and what happened before is … well, far from wise. And does her a tremendous disservice.

_That_ journalist had been all too keen on befriending him and learning every little detail he possibly could of Tom’s life. _This_ journalist seems determined to keep a distance, no matter what opportunities are afforded her.

She even made a point of showing him the screen of her phone as she had accepted the call the night she had given him her personal number. He couldn’t wait to call it. Didn’t care a thing for the fact that it might look desperate. It wasn’t a thing he wanted to leave for another day. She’d stared up at him, eyebrows knit together, head tilted at an angle that sent the shadows from the nearby streetlamp dancing across her face. She asked him if he wanted her to add his number to her contacts list, or just leave it blank and _remember_ that the number was his.

Of all the questions! He’d momentarily taken offense. She didn’t want his number in her phone after she had offered her number to him?! And then the surge of emotion passed, melting away with the hurried babble paired with her uncertain expression. He was a dolt. She was worried about his privacy. It was only after assurances, and a short debate, that she finally settled on tagging his number simply with his first initial, just in case.

He’ll talk her into being comfortable with assigning it with his given name, eventually.

Chuckling to himself, he tosses aside the pages he is ignoring and frees his mobile from his pocket to scroll to her contact information – to the number he nearly knows now by heart – and initializes a call. As he listens to the tones cycling his eyes drift to the drawn curtains mostly covering the window. Darkness lies beyond. With that acknowledgement comes another thought: it’s the middle of the night.

No mental maths are required to figure out what time it is for her. There is no time-zone difference between them at the moment. That, of course, doesn’t change the fact that it’s late. How late? The sun went down hours ago… He lifts his arm to inspect the monochromatic face of the watch upon his wrist.

**Late**.

A bit.

More than a bit.

For a brief moment he feels a flutter within his chest as he contemplates hanging up before she has a chance to answer. He even gets so far as holding the device away from his ear in prep for ringing off – but his action is paused by her voice.

“Hello.”

It isn’t her usual answer. Though he can’t see her he can tell that she isn’t smiling like she usually does when she speaks – or suppressing a smile, as so often is the case when they’ve interacted in the past. He mentally kicks himself for not checking the time before giving in to his urges. He’s woken her. The feeling is only slightly lessened by the fact that she answered regardless.

“Hullo. I – sorry, I didn’t check the time before calling.” He shakes his head gently, furious with himself for being so thoughtless. He’ll have to make it up to her – send her something to make amends. “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to sleep.”

“What?” He can hear her moving around, and then a huff that is almost a sigh. “Oh. No. No you didn’t wake me. What are you doing up, though? I thought you would be trying to get as much sleep as possible, since you’re working.”

Tom answers, though he’s still tempted to try to protest and apologize for the lateness of the call. As he speaks he can hear more movement from her end. Sounds that indicate that she’s standing after a long period of sitting. Stretching. He coughs, and speaks before his brain can too thoroughly conjure an image of that action. “Rewrites to memorize, but my head isn’t in it.” True enough, it is his head, but increasingly his _heart_ that is the problem.

“Oh? Sorry I’m not out and about like last time, but… Hang on I’ll open the office window and… er, pray I don’t drop my phone while you listen to the ebb and flow of the city.” She sounds a little more awake now, her tone and cadence settling into something more familiar to him.

Yes, he does love the sounds of London, but that was not the reason for the call. Now that he has her on the line he aims to keep her talking. “Office? You’re at work?”

She laughs – his mind latching onto and soaking up the sound that he so desired to hear – and then responds, “Yes. Deadlines. You’re not the only one that keeps odd hours, you know. And lucky for you that I do, or you’d be leaving a message right now.”

He grins, turning to smile at himself in the bureau mirror. She’s yet to miss a call from him. His momentary contentment over that fact washes aside when he processes the first part of her reply. “Deadlines have you in so early in the morning?”

“Or so late at night, depending on how you look at it. Haven’t gone home yet.” She pauses and he can hear the distinct click of the window latch before the nighttime sounds of the city also pour through the speaker. “And now I’m playing the ‘how long can one go without sleep’ game.”

“Ah, one I know well. What’s your record?”

As she laughs the sounds coming through his mobile change. She’s put him on speaker, so he can better hear the sounds streaming in through the nearby window. How much longer will the both of them pretend that is the reason for his calls?

“Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

He shoves his free hand in his pocket, settling into a comfortable stance as he stares at himself in the bureau mirror. She always does this, makes him give up facts every time he tries to glean one from her. Sometimes he catches the maneuver in time, sometimes he doesn’t realize it has happened until he’s hip deep in recounting a tale from his childhood. “Worried that my record will beat yours? No matter what I admit to, I have this feeling you’ll scold me for it.”  

“Only because sleep is important to your health, Tom.”

“And yet here we are. Both wide awake.”

Her response is delayed, a slight pause wherein he hears her stifling a yawn. “Speak for yourself. 56 hours. My record, by the way. Only achieved through massive amounts of caffeine and adrenaline coursing through my system.”

Two days and eight hours. His thoughts conflict – concern over that amount of sleep deprivation battling against curiosity regarding what kept her up for so long. He bypasses the warring thoughts, afraid that too long a pause will bring about an end to the call. “Impressive. Hopefully you’re not going to attempt to break your record tonight?”

“No.”

He can hear her smile through her words. Having heard her laugh, now he yearns to see her. Will his desire for more ever be sated?

She’s the one to continue to talk this time. “It took me days to feel like my usual self after that. I don’t know if it was the newness of everything, how unfamiliar the city felt, or just the fact that I was taking such a risk…”

As she trails off he picks up the thread, unwilling to let it disappear. She introduced the topic and offered up the nugget of information. He’d be remiss to let the opportunity pass him by without giving the thread a light tug. “Time zone jumps can do that to you.”

“And you do them every day.” She pauses, correcting herself with a light laugh, “Not every day but often enough. It must be exhausting.”

His eyes flit over the reflection in the mirror, moving to explore the room at his back. It is mostly clean but appears lived in – a few articles of clothing discarded on the furniture, paperwork left out on the desk. Tidy but – what’s the word – rumpled? That’s the way he feels when he travels too often for work. “Long plane rides are great for napping. Of course nothing beats being able to relax in your own home.”

She emits a noise before she speaks that he can’t quite assign to agreement, but it doesn’t quite sound like she’s disagreeing with his statement either. “In your secret garden?”

Tom flicks his focus from the reflected room back to his face as he laughs. “If weather permits.”

Her mention of his backyard, a topic they covered in their first meeting, initiates a tantalizing daydream. Her, in his backyard – sitting with him on the small patio, her presence there amplifying the beauty of the small enclosure. The vision is redoubled by the early morning sounds accompanying her voice through the speaker of his mobile. How he longs to be home. How he longs to be nearer… He is nearly bowed by the sudden pang of emotion, the wish that it could be more than a daydream. But – but it could. Couldn’t it?

Before he can consider the wisdom of it, the words are out: “You’d understand if you spent a few hours hemmed in by the ivy covered walls. You should come by once I’m back. See for yourself.”

“Mmm. That’s a dangerous invitation. Inviting a journalist into your inner sanctum? Could end badly. Ruin that bit of privacy so closely guarded.”

Her words haul him out of the daydream with cruel force. He blinks and stares at his reflection, focusing in on the bridge of his nose. She’d laughed out the words, not knowing how the statement would send chills through him, how it reminded him of _before_. He can’t form a word of reply for a moment, then two. It was a joke. Banter. She hadn’t meant anything by it.

He licks his lips, the action not helping much since his mouth has gone dry. His laugh sounds a bit hollow to his ears as he tries to play if off. Shake it off. Shake it off… but his brain refuses to reboot, refuses to relay words to his mouth. She’s rendered him speechless, and not in a good way.

“Tom?” He hears rustling from her end, the click of the window to indicate it being closed again. No more secondary sounds of his belovèd city. Her words sound slightly muffled, combined with more rustling. He can visualize her holding the phone out, checking to make sure they hadn’t been disconnected.

No. She’d just made him walk headlong into a memory that he didn’t want to revisit. Not something he could explain in a late night call. Not something he ever wanted to have to relive, either. The silence extends a few moments more before he can eject two simple words, short in their delivery. “I’m here.”

She puffs out a breath, clearly thrown by his hesitant and chilled response. “I’m – look it’s not that I’m not flattered…” She thinks his short reply is rooted in anger over a perceived rebuff of his invitation? “…I just. I wouldn’t take advantage, you know that. It was a stupid thing to say. Don’t know why I said it. Attempt at a joke? Which… that’s not something to joke about, I know. Chalk it up to sleep deprivation. Just. Ignore me. God. Ok I’m going to go. At this rate I’m going to shove my whole leg in my mouth rather than just my foot.”

An interesting mental image. He can’t find words to even begin to attempt to break through her nervous babble. She’s going to end the call in a stammered farewell before he can even begin… Though thrown by her statement, the last thing he wants is for her to hang up. Particularly not how things stand. He further tries to shake the ill feeling, leave it behind – in the past where it belongs. “Sure you’re awake enough to make it home?”

Her response is quiet. Careful. “I’m fine. Public transport. Not driving. Besides, what are you going to do about it from there?”

“Suggest a cab? Call a car?” He wants her to laugh, needs to at least hear the smile in her voice before she ends the call. Needs it for two reasons: to make sure she’s ok, and that _they’re_ ok – that the connection between them hasn’t broken from a few simple words exchanged between them. He doesn’t get it – no reassuringly throaty laugh to help relieve the dryness in his mouth, just a low non-reply. He tries again. “At least stay on the line with me until you make it home?”

“Probably not a good idea. I’ll say something else stupid.” He can hear her moving about, imagines her gathering her things in prep for leaving the office. She coughs, and speaks, “You should be getting to bed as well.”

Once again the sound of her smile is gone from her words. He’s back to kicking himself, just as he had at the start of the call. This is not how he wanted things to go, not at all! “Right. Yes…” He thinks frantically, trying to figure out how to mend things before –

“Goodnight, Tom.” She mutters, her voice low. Just before she clicks off she adds, “For the record? I’d love to see your garden. If you… sometime… ask me again. Maybe next time I won’t blow it.”

She rings off without waiting for a reply from him. Tom is left standing there staring at his reflection, holding his mobile to his ear. Time passes, and then he finally blinks himself free of the moment, finally able to lower his arm and stare at the device held in his hand. His scowled expression is reflected back in the surface of the device, an accusatory stare – as though the technology itself were responsible for that train wreck of a call.

But had it been a train wreck? Really? He’d gotten a few more details regarding her past – a win in and of itself – and then there were her words just before hanging up:

_Maybe next time I won’t blow it._

She wanted him to ask again! He glances at his watch, momentarily curious as to how long it has been since the call ended. Over half an hour. He’s stood there, lost in the maze of his own mind for over half an hour. She hasn’t called him back in over half an hour. She is willing to let things stand how they left them? He sure isn’t…

He unlocks his phone and then hesitates, wary of initiating another call. Maybe she doesn’t want to talk to him? Text. He’ll text her first. Test the waters.

>> _We ok?_ <<

She answers him nearly immediately.

<< _I’m so sorry for what I said._ >>

He huffs and fires one right back.

>> _That’s not what I asked!_ <<

He waits for a response, but nothing comes. After five minutes of waiting he can’t stand it any longer.

>> _Are you home? I’m calling._ <<

She answers immediately. If he wasn’t so preoccupied he might feel triumphant over that.

“Oh God, Tom. I’m sorry. Can we just pretend like that last conversation never happened?”

“No!” He blurts out his reply, his frustration tinging his tone. She groans in response. He continues on, “Why would I _want_ to forget that conversation? Barring that – whatever happened there at the end? Actually, even that. Because what you said…”

“That I say stupid things when I’m tired?” She’s muttering now, sounding miserable. “The sun isn’t even up and I’m wishing the day was over. Or for a redo. Where’s the redo button?”

Through her muttering she doesn’t hear him when he speaks. He has to repeat himself several times before she pauses and listens long enough to hear him ask as to her whereabouts.  

“Yes, Tom. I’m home. Had just enough time to change and – you asked if we’re ok? If you don’t hate me, if I say yes, that we’re fine, can I get back to cursing at the wall?”

He blinks and chuffs out a laugh, “What did the wall do?”

“Nothing. But it’s there, judging me.”

There – the eek of a smile changing the tone of her words. Despite the fact that she seems to lament their last conversation she’s sounding as though her spirits are rising.

“I’ll point out the obvious here. The wall isn’t judging you.”

She emits a long sigh, “I know. I know. Inanimate object. So, if you’re not angry with me…”

“I’m not.” He interjects in the space where she draws a breath.

She hardly seems to hear his attempt at reassurance. “If you’re not calling now to berate me on manners and – I’ll do that later, anyway. We’re ok, Tom. You go to sleep. I’ll burrow under the covers and curse the wall a bit longer, then switch over to…”

He speaks over her stream of babble. “When – when I get home in a month.” He pauses, letting her words die out before continuing. “When I get home in a month, come over?” He waits, mouth suddenly dry again.

“Tom.” He can practically see her shaking her head as she says his name. “When I said ask me again later I meant –”

“I know what you meant. Is this your answer? Are you saying no?” His stomach drops. One phone call! One _fraction_ of one phone call is all it took?

She doesn’t seem to be able to form a reply, at least not one that doesn’t provide conflicting answers. “I – no. I’m. Yes.” She fires off yet another curse and starts again. The wall will be blistered by the time she’s finished, if this phone call is any indication of the vehemence of the words she plans on unleashing at the supporting structure. “Unless you change your mind between then and now – yes, Monsieur. I’d love to.”


End file.
